Static Storm

I have the blankets

Piled high,

Covering me.

Not for their warmth,

But for their magic.

The room is dark.

I draw the covers up

To my chin.

Then, slowly,

I pull them apart;

And, between the blankets,

With static as my magic force,

I make lightning!

I start with a tiny spark.

Then, slowly, steadily, 

Keeping the magic before my eyes,

Gently pulling the blankets

Away, each from each,

I make the lightning 

Grow.

A millimeter.

A centimeter.

An inch.

How far can I go?

How big can I make my

Blanket lightning?

The static electricity crackles and pops

Between the soft wool blankets.

I rub them together

To turn the static on

Again.

And again.

A tiny storm

Crackles between my fingers,

A manageable microcosm

Of static electricity,

Like the lightning that flashes

In a summer storm.

But this is MY storm:

Fascinating, not frightening.

Scintillating, not scary.

Magical, not murderous.

It dances to my whim.

I am electric.

I am magical.

I am powerful.

I am spectacular.

I am seven.